


Bloodline of Choas

by nocturneworld6



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy, Graphic Description of Corpses, I need to take a break, I'm Going to Hell, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, This Was Too much To write, Too much violence, Why Did I Write This?, i'm sorry in advance, magic systems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25224292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneworld6/pseuds/nocturneworld6
Summary: Cyllene is a princess, doomed under a familial curse. Kurama is a cold blooded killer. Both of them are going to die a horrible death, if they do not reach the necromancers' colony and fix what is broken.
Relationships: Cyllene/Kurama
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Ambers rained down on the pavement where the palace stood in all its glory. A bright scimitar fell near the entrance, where the princess stood, evaluating coldly. Twenty dead so far. Out of which four were the palace guardians. She ran towards the centerstage of the palace, where lay an open body of a Frigga, its intestines spilled out as its decapitated head still sucked into a young one’s neck. Picking up the hatchaxe, the princess cleaved off the Frigga’s head and threw it away from the dead.

Twenty-one dead now, the princess thought. There wasn’t a sight of the palace guardians that were left. She should have known that Guerz wasn’t a place to bring royal servants from. Her father had been getting senile, and what with the curse-

The curse.

Benrazei descended from the staircase, slowly unsheathing his sword. “How many?”

She blinked in his direction. The smoke and fire made it impossible even for her to see the injuries inflicted upon him. They were a mere inconvenience, but not at all fatal.

“Twenty-one, father,” she replied. A distinct war cry erupted from the dead, as one palace guards regained consciousness. The princess looked at her father, wincing at the bitter look he was giving her. She had to be held responsible for the mess she had brought upon them, and now she anticipated that her guards would be withheld from her.

“Twenty now,” said her father. She looked on in terror as the grenns ravaged upon the palace, their long, forked tongues vibrating in the air, their long slithering bodies curling up against the skylights and windowsills of the palace. She threw her hatchaxe at one of the creatures, and it sliced off the head in an almost clean cut.

Benrazei adjusted his shawl to save himself from the falling ambers, and instructed in a harsh voice, “Eliminate the Friggas and destroy the grenns. None of this should concern me but yet here I am, witnessing your incapability.”

“Sorry father,” she silently said and thrust her hatchaxe into another wild Frigga, drawing out brownish blood from its neck. She had that unsure way of executing her moves, that was expected from a sixteen-year-old. She lacked focus and thought too much before striking, a clear lack of muscle memory on her side. Her green robe enveloped her, and she didn’t even care to slice it off to ease her movements.

After all the fourteen Friggas were dropped at Benrazei’s feet, she wiped the sweat off her forehead and cleaned the edge of her blade against her red robe. “All done.”

Benrazei quickly turned to the still smouldering palace entrance. “I’ll go and seek out the Guerzian that hired those guards. You can utilize that time to hunt for some fortune teller to undo the curse.”

She glanced at her feet. “Father…”

He had already turned his back against her. “When would you learn to embrace your nature?”

“I’m sorry father,” she said, her eyes still trained to the ground, “I would do whatever you want in order to gain your trust back.”

He sighed slightly. “On the mountain beyond the Eternal lake, there is an old warlock that has been destroying crops and looting gold from our citizens,” he enunciated each word with unease, “If you can put an end to his terror within the next full moon, I would forgive your faults and give you back that Velinac of yours.”

Her eyes almost welled up at the mention of her pet. “You’ll give back Xoruk?”

He nodded. “Only if the job is done.”

She squealed and hugged him tight, before becoming aware of the hole in his torso. Calming herself, she took a few steps back and bowed slightly. Nunces had already come to the palace to quell the fire on the pedestal. The princess lifted the heavy hatchaxe on her shoulder and walked off towards her room to prepare for the journey.

* * *

The Lake of Eternity, The Moonlight lake, or the Eternal Lake as known by current standard, was a weird water body to begin with. The water always seemed silver, reflective like a mirror, but when you picked it up in the palm of your hand it would become dull and turbid. The princess watched silently as a white siren swooped too close to the lake and became engulfed by the shiny water, suddenly entering a paralytic state. She clutched the fence that surrounded the lake, and tugged on her cloak. Her hood hid most of her face, and a mask covered the rest of it.

She approached through the empty Collection Counter, and held her royal seal for inspection. She was too short to reach over the counter, so she climbed up, earning a shriek of annoyance from the ticket checker.

“I am Cyllene, the princess of Ekaiya,” she put forth her best smile, “I need to get over to the mountain to attend to my friend’s wedding.”

The ticket checker was an old oaf, with a big scraggly beard and unkempt hair the color of freshly fallen snow. Not that the princess would know what snow looked like. She had only heard her nunce talk about snow, the chilly sensation of it when kept on the palm, and the snow castles that she used to build before she was enslaved and brought to the princess’s palace.

“Papers,” the oaf said, his loud voice booming inside the tiny ticket counter. The sun shone through the little window, directly into the princess’s eyes, illuminating their brown hue. She shielded using her hand, and earned a sigh. There was no other traveler here, why was the old man so anxious about her leaving?

She silently placed her credentials and the royal seal on the counter, and asked, “Is there any inn where I could stay for a bit of time?”

“I’m not your agent, princess,” the man coldly said, and returned to checking her papers.

“I’ve heard you get a lot of snow here,” she said, conscious of the man scrutinous gaze at her.

“Listen, princess,” the man said, slapping the papers against the counter, angered, “If you think a bit of chit chat is going to settle it for you, I haven’t slept for three days, my landlord has decided to kick me out because he knows about my little projects, and my wife is going to leave me for that very reason.” He glared at her, ready to tear her up. “If you don’t shut your trap, I will give you the most horrible nightmares you have ever seen in your life.”

The princess backed up a few steps. Now that she noticed, the man had a weary old look on his face, even for an elderly person. His hair was unkempt because he wasn’t able to sleep.

Because he had been casting.

“You’re a dreamcaster,” the girl whispered, although the man literally spelled it out for her. He had reached that point of instability that he was willing to put himself in order to threaten her.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Are you going to tell your father about it? Going to tell that bastard about the heretic that haunts his little hamlet?”

She stared at him intently. “I thought your kind had been rare to come across?”

He huffed. “Of course, we would have been spawning well if your ancestors hadn’t decided to wage a war against our existence,” he growled again, “Bloody hypocrites.”

She picked up her little bags and prepared to leave. People like him could not be reasoned with.

“One moment, girl,” he said, as he noticed her hurrying pace, “Why did you ask for an inn to stay if you are attending your friend’s wedding?”

She turned, her long, luscious black locks framing her small face, and said simply, “Thanks for telling me your secret.”

“If you think you can blackmail me using the fact that I’m a mara, sorry,” he said, in an impatient voice, “You won’t have to, since no one would take my word.”

“I do not intend to use your sensitive information against you,” she said, smiling serenely. “I know you trusted me so I could trust you back.”

The man stared at the princess, his hands shaking. “Why don’t behave like a bloody princess?”

“Don’t princesses behave this way?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she was already off. “Bye Mr. Ticket Checker, I will be back after I slay the monster beyond the Eternal lake!”

* * *

Upon entering the little hamlet, the princess learned a cold, hard truth.

People took advantage of you at every turn.

She had acquired a little breakfast in bed to stay the night at before moving on to the silvercorn fields to investigate, but when she came back from the fields, all her belongings had disappeared. The manager of the place claimed to say that he hadn’t seen anybody go into her room, and she was almost at the verge of losing her cool before deciding to settle score sometime else. She had far bigger problem to worry about.

And then she was kicked out because she exhausted all of the money she had, because the manager was charging too much.

And nobody would take in a girl wielding a hatchaxe, so they put her in a prison.

After a few days she was released, her axe taken away from her, and penniless on the street.

She was barely surviving outside a pagan temple, eating bland oats and drinking well water.

Until one day, a woman walked up to her and said, “You look like a little princess, doncha?”

She lifted her head up, barely seeing through the morning light that invaded her vision. The woman was in her late sixties, her grey hair in a low bun, a ratty old dress adorning her thin body. Age made her slouch a little, but the woman was a figure to be admired. She exuded confidence and authority like no other lady.

The princess smiled in response. Her hair was now rough and dirty from the nights she had spent in sleepless panic, scared that another mongrel of the street would come at her and violate her.

“What’s your name, child?”

“Cyllene,” the girl said, her gaze unwavering. “And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name, my lady?”

“Ah, she talks,” the lady said, smiling. “Have you the means to prepare your food, child?”

“Alas, I have but a pot and a stone, and I will brew up the most delicious stone soup,” the princess said, her eyes twinkling. “I just happen to lack the condiments to make its flavour pop, you know.”

The woman laughed. “I see you jest, little girl,” she picked her shoulders and made her stand up. “I was thinking to invite you home, if you would accept.”

The girl felt ashamed. “I’m sorry madam, it would be a huge inconvenience…”

“Of course not,” the woman said, “Rather, you like emaciated. How many days have you not eaten? You look like a shadowcaster at this point.”

The woman might have been joking, but it was very bold to even mention shadowcasters. Especially since the warlock was stealing livestock for shadow people, and the curse of the night had befallen the land.

The princess gave a little smile. An embarrassed one at this point. “I really cannot accept.”

“Please, girl,” the woman said, her hands gripping the princess desperately but her eyes exuding carefree nature. “My granddaughter would have been the same age as yours. Let me reminisce some of that poor girl’s memories.”

The princess had been very good at her instincts, and this woman did not trigger any red flags. All she saw was a desperate lady in search of peace of her mind.

“All right,” the princess gave in. “Let us go then.”

* * *

The house smelled of burning herbs, spice and medicine. A jar of burning rain embers lit the shabby house, barely providing any light.

“Please,” the lady pulled out a long stool and placed it in front of the princess. The princess was overcome with gratitude. “Thank you, madam.”

“Call me Feone,” the woman said, smiling ever so slightly. Her mantle was decorated with dried flowers and unopened letters. A little table adorned with white lilies in a vase, with rackety little chairs around it. Everything in the house seemed to have aged.

“Feone,” the princess echoed. The woman turned towards the kitchen and started a fire in the stove. She kept talking, her voice muffled by the sound of burning splinters. “You know my granddaughter looked just like you, little bird.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, a little brat she was,” the lady started chopping carrots and tomatoes. “She had the same waist length black hair and the same striking eyes, doll. How long have you been in this hamlet, anyway?”

“Three months,” the girl said. “How did you know I wasn’t from here?”

“You look like an outsider, silly,” the woman turned to look at the princess.

“I…” the princess stuttered, at a loss of words. Would her father also admit the same?

“My little girl also looked like an outsider…” Feone said, her voice sounding distant, as though she had been entranced by some inexplicable entity. “She was no princess like you, but she had that unearthly glow on her skin.”

The princess’s heart pounded. “How did you know I was a princess?”

“She also had delicate hands like yours,” the woman continued, her hands shaking, as she approached the princess. The princess wanted to leave her identity behind, perhaps remain an anonymous soul for however long she could have desired. Even the nights at the streets, scared like a kitten, protecting her honour in that unfortunate situation, was still better than being called the princess. It had been drilled into her, that however long she fought, the curse would win.

_No,_ she thought. _I am princess Cyllene, of Ekaiya._

Which meant that she had to protect her family’s honour.

The woman came right in front of her and asked, “Do you know that story about the shadowcaster prince?”

This woman was insane. The way she stared deep into Cyllene’s eyes, trying to gauge out any secrets she could get her hands on. The way her hands shivered, in anticipation. The way she had hidden this side of hers long enough to fool the princess.

Only malicious people could do that.

“The shadowcaster prince?” Cyllene said, genuinely scared.

“You don’t know, do you?” the woman sat back on the rickety chair, just beside Cyllene, and a vapour like substance emanated from her hands. Cyllene’s eyes widened in horror. A dreamcaster. And judging by the time she had seen the blinding light outside the pagan temple, it had already been three hours. Even if the dreamcaster had been proficient in her job, it would eventually burn her out. Patches of burns had already started forming on the lady’s hands. She must have been famed in her days if she could stretch a dream this long.

“You are incinerating,” Cyllene said, her eyes on the woman’s hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, closing her hands. That is why she had put those burning herbs. She wanted to mask the smell of her decaying flesh. And if Cyllene had been casted upon, it would be easier for the woman to convince her.

She needed to wake up.

“You’re struggling,” the woman said, slowly raising her hand to wipe the blood off her mouth. She coughed a little in the palm of her hand, revealing congealed blood.

“Stop this,” Cyllene said, her hands shaking, as she picked the plate on the table. She had to think fast.

“The wheel has been set in motion, my dear,” the woman grabbed Cyllene’s chin, and stared deep into her eyes. “The warlock beyond the Eternal lake has decided to mark his final sacrifice.”

The plate dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor.

“My little girl.” The woman shivered, and placed her hands on either side of her head. “You must avenge her. You must spill out his blood, as he did to my little girl, my Nadya.”

Cyllene screamed at her. “Stop!”

Bending down, she grabbed the piece of broken plate, and jabbed it into the palm of her own hand. Flames enveloped Cyllene, and a piercing scream rang out.

* * *

When Cyllene woke up again, she was acutely aware of the sunlight beaming into her face. The pagan gods sat before her, the lion god turning his nose up at the shivering girl at his feet.

The light was interrupted by a priest, coming out from the prayer room. He was a thin, frail looking old man with a shaved head and wearing a loincloth. His upper body was pockmarked with scars, something unheard of amongst priests. Holy men are usually bred into religion, they never even touch weapons or defile their bodies with tattoos or scars.

“Very well,” the old man said, waving a smoke pot around and aerating the surrounding with incense. “You have woken up.”

“Where am I?”

“Well, it is obvious,” the priest said, setting down the pot and sitting beside her, as he smoothed the side of her bed mat. “You are in the temple of Al’mar, the Lion god.”

Cyllene looked at the soft light emanating from the lamps around her. Her hands had been messily bandaged with a soft, wet medicine pouch wrapped around a grisund leaf, the gauze dripping with the pungent juices flowing from the wound.

“My hand,” the princess managed to say, acutely aware of the dull pain in her hand. She’d remembered the incineration of the woman, Feone. Her hand traced her ears, where a bamboo needle had been pierced inside each lobe, still dripping wet with blood.

“What is this?” she said, her voice shaking.

The priest wrapped her in a crimson sheet, and lifted her up. Beneath the sheet, her body ached with the exhaustion, the sleep deprivation and the flimsy ragged clothes she wore.

“That was to protect you from the sacrifice,” the priest said, smiling. Cyllene had an expression of utter confusion on her face. Then she remembered the rumours. The warlock. His alleged alliance with the shadowcasters. The sacrifices. The troubles she had endured for the past three months.

“How long have I been here?” she said, wrapping the sheet tighter around herself.

“Three days,” the priest said. “I didn’t think you were getting better. Your body was bleeding from every pore, your hands were torn off their tendons. How you even survived is a miracle in itself. Even if you did, there is no way you would be able to talk or stand.”

She gaped at the priest, and then stared at the ground. “I have never insulted my family name more.”

The priest laughed. “Well at least you came out alive.”

Cyllene considered the statement. Three months of futility had gotten her nowhere. She had been swindled, robbed and almost molested. It was enough for a person of her status to give up. She wasn’t weak at heart; she was just tired and didn’t care enough anymore. She would go home, to her palace. She would ask her father for forgiveness. If he turns her away, there was always her mother’s kingdom to look forward to. Her uncles and aunts would accept her even though her mother had been dead for almost a decade. If even that doesn’t work out, she would join the knights, ask the mayor of the city for forgiveness for her crime, and pick up her weapon as before. A job in the army will not provide security, but would mean laurels and prestige. Yes, anything would be better than letting her dignity go in vain.

At least she was alive.

The priest recommended her to rest. “You wouldn’t gain much by running around at this moment.”

“I have to return to my home,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. The priest gave her a salve to rub on her wounds. A deep burn was evident on her belly, flaring up towards her heart. She winced as she applied the salve on the wounds, mint and burberry melting into her flesh.

The priest sat down beside her. “It’s okay, you’ll be home soon.”

She looked up from her tear stained eyes. About to say something, she was interrupted by a little voice speaking up. “Father, I watered the plants.”

From the corner of her eye, Cyllene could see a little girl, no more than five or six, standing near the pillar adjacent to the huge door. Her skin had an unearthly marble grey texture. She wore a little olfo, the kind of dress Cyllene had seen only in wall paintings and festival dramas. A light lavender stripe of ceremonial herki was striped against the right cheek of her face. Her long brown hair fell into numerous braids down to her waist.

“Good girl, Daeka,” the priest said, as he got up and walked towards the girl. She cowered a little, but as the man kept a hand on her head, she went ice cold. Her stare held Cyllene captive.

The priest turned towards Cyllene. “Daeka will see you to your chambers. You will have your food brought in there,” the priest snuffed the candle beside him, hanging on the wall. “Can’t have you straining too much.”

The girl looked at Cyllene as the priest went out, mumbling something about lost scriptures. Cyllene regarded the girl for a moment, taking in her strange appearance and approached her. The girl’s eyes followed her in a strange fashion. Her eyes locked in on her every movement. And as Cyllene approached the girl, she felt an overwhelming emotion. She couldn’t identify why she felt that way, or why tears streamed down her face as she knelt down on the same level as the strange girl.

The girl smiled, as if broken from within, a little bird trying to fly with clipped wings. Fluttering, staggering on the ground, not flying as such.

The girl had grey eyes. Grey, marble eyes. No iris, no pupils. Just grey mass where the cornea should have been.

“You want to plant little trees with me?” the little girl said, holding out a bag of cherry blossom seeds up at Cyllene.

* * *

“And there you go,” Daeka patted down the last row of cherry they had planted. Cyllene sprinkled the earth around them with the mountain water. Daeka wrestled with the huge wiring around the patch, and then turned towards Cyllene. “How did you kill the Frigga last time?”

“How do you know that?” Cyllene asked, confused.

“You told me, silly,” Daeka made a face at her. “You said you killed fourteen Friggas before coming here.”

Cyllene looked at the blossoming canary flowers on the tree branches. “I don’t remember killing so many.”

“Whatever you say,” Daeka pouted. “My brother used to say that Friggas don’t die even when their heads are cut off. How did you annihilate them?”

Cyllene knelt down, pinching the young one’s cheek. Daeka uttered a cry of surprise, making her laugh.

“You ask too much,” Cyllene said, and winked at her. “But I might trade secrets if you wish.”

Daeka’s eyes twinkled. “I am aware of many secrets, ask me anything!”

“Okay,” Cyllene said, her voice trailing off, but she didn’t have to think much for the posed question. “Who is Feone?”

“Oh, the Black Witch,” Daeka said, climbing up a Warwillow tree. “Here in the Moonlight Hamlet, there used to be very many dreamcasters and shadowcasters living side by side in harmony. Feone used to be one of the most proficient casters of dreams, alongside Shaun.”

Cyllene crossed her arms, knowing she would not be able to come up with elaborate lies at this age. “Who’s Shaun?”

“One secret for yours.” Daeka reminded her. “How did you kill the Friggas?”

Cyllene huffed. “I used to have a hatchaxe before. I swung each one of them with my axe, and when their heads would fall off, I split them in two.” A pause. “Who’s Shaun?”

Daeka stared at her, as though not believing. “You do remember the ticket checker at the Eternal lake, right?”

The realisation kicked in too late, as Cyllene sunk to her knees, her eyes on the little girl in front of her, the garden hoe still in her hand. “Daeka, are you a riveya?”


	2. Chapter 2

The whole place stank like blood. That weird, wet, metallic taste that you cannot get out of your mouth. It invaded his nostrils, his mouth, his senses all at once, making him retch.

Iron shackles held him down into his place. He had already lost his count of days. He wanted to mark it on the wall, but he couldn’t get to the wall without getting his collar off. He had scratched away most of his skin around his neck, left with scabs and claw marks all over.

Far in a corner, somebody’s intestines, ripped open, decayed slowly. He hadn’t gotten used to organs falling off after a fatal wound, but now he was getting a hang of it. He tried to jog his memory a bit. There was no use trying to remember how much time had he lost. He did remember though that his name started with a K. Was it Kosuke? No, that would be that annoying older brother. Kazuma? No, that was the cousin. He slowly rolled the name off his tongue, trying to grasp at his sanity. “Kurama.”

And thus began his daily chant. A continuous chant of _Kurama_ until he faints. But how would fate be so gracious, taking away his pain with his consciousness. Sometimes, as the bodies rolled over and he consumed more blood, in the same degenerate way as he had done over the last few days, he wondered what could his loss of insanity mean. Would a different person take hold of him, while his sane self crouched in a corner, waiting for the worst to end?

Who cared, as long as he was getting his blood.

He didn’t know much about the days that rolled by, but sometimes he would be greeted by the warlock. The bastard never attempted to show his face, only his voice came from the iron bars outside Kurama’s prison.

_Use the seias, you bloodsucker._

Which was ironic, as Kurama was no vampire. He only used the blood to restore the seias into his body. His muscles were slowly starting to degenerate from the lack of proper food. Sometimes he would go to great lengths to try and eat the body parts thrown at him, but he had no energy to chew through uncooked meat. He just chanted and chanted. A continuous stream of his name, ever flowing through his mouth.

One day, tired, he managed to speak in a broken voice.

“Water.”

And a bowl of water slid from the side of his cell into his vision.

“If you want it, cast something for me.”

Kurama tried his best as tendrils of his own shadow emerged from his form, slinking outside into the void.

“Good, good.”

The tendrils grasped lightly at the bowl outside, toppling it and spilling the water onto the ground.

He heard a sigh, and then a bowl of porridge was slipped from the opening below the bars.

“I’ll give you much more, only if you agree to work for me.”

Kurama pounced upon the porridge, devouring it in one gulp, and said, in a hoarse voice, “What work?”

* * *

Kurama had learnt to live with it. The constant slaughter of people to steal garkieas from them, that is. He’d go where the warlock told him to, wreak havoc, kill cattle, sometimes unsuspecting villagers who travelled way beyond the border, those who wandered way close to the warlock. He best enjoyed killing hot headed soldiers and thieving scoundrels. Loved their screams when they got attacked. Loved how their soft flesh dissolved into mush under his hands. The brain matter, oozing out of their skulls like a glacier.

Kurama grew to like violence.

It took his mind off of things. Like his family, or the ritual they perform every five hundred years. It all came down to killing. Simple and straightforward, just as he liked it.

He was sitting once on the bough of a high winter yew. Its green leaves now acquired a golden-brown hue. His mother used to say that its yellow leaves were the cure for loneliness. He snatched one from an arm beside him, and smelled it. It even smelled like his mother. Perhaps the loneliness part was for the fact that his mother spent days of her widowhood in the arms of a yew, just like the one he was sitting on.

Something rustled in the woods, and he sat upright. The moon was overhead, shining a silver light in the vicinity of the yew, where only Kurama appeared to reflect the golden glow of the leaves.

The bushes rustled, and an arrow just missed Kurama, scraping against his shoulder.

He stroked the side of his bleeding shoulder, and raised his eyes to the direction of rustling.

A shaman, dressed in shabby robes, marooned with specks of blood and vermillion all over it. His eyes held a strange stare at the boy, slowly registering the sight before him. Kurama assumed because the monk was not able to see in the dark. The monk lit up a torch, blinding Kurama. He hissed, covering his eyes, hiding behind the tree. How was this godman able to know he was there? Kurama knew a lot about kitas, but he didn’t know if they could see him in the dark as well as he could. Was it because of the light of the moon? He suspected it.

“Come out,” the monk ordered.

Kurama huddled against the yew. “What do you want?”

“It was you, was it not?” the monk asked, slowly reloading the arrow, “tearing into human flesh, spilling blood. Old, young, rich, poor, men, women. You do not discriminate, don’t you?”

Kurama jumped from the yew tree to the next. An arrow hit him straight in the arm, and he lost his footing. He fell from the tree to the ground, landing with a faint thud.

The monk stomped his sandal over his chest, as he reloaded again, “You are a disgrace even by jiveya standards. Even those uncouth people do not kill innocent beings.”

Kurama laughed. “Fuck you.”

The arrow left the bowstring, and pierced right into his heart. Kurama felt his ribs crush inside, his breathing became shallow, and the light around him engulf him. As his blood seeped out from his wound, he willed his shadow to cast itself into numerous long shards of glass, and tried to lift them to the shaman’s heart

He tried.

The shadows melted. He had to act quick, as he was losing a lot of blood. If he lost more than a quarter, there would be a thin chance of him surviving.

The shaman noticed his futile attempt. He smiled, slowly pressing his sandal deep into the wound, earning a tortured scream from Kurama.

“You would dare raise your shadow against me?” he said, pressing deeper. “You scum?”

Kurama coughed up blood.

“Tell me,” he asked.

“What?” asked the monk, in surprise.

Skin cracked; flesh tore up. There was the monk, his torso pierced by a slew of shadow shards, as Kurama bled to certain death. “Tell me, how does it feel like to be skewered, huh?”

The shards withdrew, and a slushy sound came from the monk’s torso. He cried out in horrifying pain. Pain dulled all other sensations around Kurama, the blinding light from the torch, the wet grass, the moonlight bathing them. The monk fell beside Kurama, as his shadow melted into the ground, a puddle beneath his feet, then returned back to normal. He cried in agony, grasping the grass under his fingers.

“Bloody cocksucker,” Kurama spat at him, and looked up, at the stars. The few moments before his death would be blissful. Dying in a pale moonlit meadow, as somewhere his mother watched from afar. His vision blurred as he smelled his garkieas burning up, the smell of burnt blood invading his senses. That little stunt with the monk’s shadow had taken a toll on him. He noticed that the monk stopped moving. Finally.

Finally, some peace.

* * *

He woke up.

The first thing he noticed was a certain jolt of pain in his chest, and the dullness of sensation in his fingers. He tried to get up, but a foreign hand came and pushed him down.

“You’ll mess up the stitches!” a feminine voice cried out, and he heard a crash from above. Following the lead, his eyes glanced upward. A low-rise ceiling, eaten up by termites and wood roaches. He rolled sideways in disgust, and through glassy vision saw a girl, hardly fifteen, hard at work on a stove. Bubbles rose from a little cauldron, spilling smoke in the vicinity. Little fairy lights decorated his bed, lighting up the room in a dreamy, distorted light.

“Where am I?” he asked to the girl, as she glanced up from her work to look at him. She was a pale little girl, her red hair hanging down to her shoulders, wet with perspiration. Her hands were blackened with what he knew was the after effects of fluxcasting.

“You,” said the girl, slowly enunciating her words, with a fake villainous tone in her voice, “are in my lair.”

Kurama rolled his eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes, you fool,” the girl said, coming closer to him, her stupid freckles making her face more innocent as she stepped right in front of him. “You reside here with my permission,” she patted her heart, “Arella, the most powerful mage in the world.”

“If it is true, Arella,” he said, playfully, “How come I’m still strewn in pieces?”

She pouted, slowly swinging her body in a fashion that made her skirt billow. “That is because you were broken from the start!”

Was he?

He felt his smile fade a bit, but he brought it back just in time to save things from being awkward. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Well because,” he said, straightening up on the bed, despite the ache in his chest, “I am the wisest mage of them all.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s not true.”

“Haven’t you heard of the Crimson Caster?”

The girl stared at him in awe, her jaw dropping. “No way.”

“Um, yeah,” he laughed, the ache amplifying inside his chest. Now he didn’t really know if he was actually being friendly with the girl or just faking the warmth, as he had done numerous times before. Granted, the Crimson Caster lived way before Kurama’s time. Granted, he was a hero prophesied to achieve greater things than were ever imaginable in Kurama’s life. But it was important to who he had looked up to be since he was a child. Growing up on the Crimson Caster’s stories, he had thought being righteous, honest and true was easy. It was just a matter of saying.

Yet, for a fleeting moment, he wanted this little girl to believe in him.

“Be careful,” the girl said, pushing him down back on his bed. “You aren’t ready to move around yet.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he said, suddenly feeling an exhaustion creep up on him.

“Rest,” she said, grabbing a green cloak from the hanger by the bed. “I’ll be gone for a few hours. Just wait and then I’ll give you some stew.”

“Why are you helping me?”

The question seemed to take her aback. “Well, I want to.”

Kurama shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“It’s not like you know me very well to make that sort of a judgement.” The girl grabbed a satchel and smiled at him.

“You’re weird.” Kurama admitted pointedly.

“Aren’t you blunt,” she said, and opened the little cottage door. “Sleep well.”

“Wait, Arella!”

Before Kurama could gather the strength to get up and chase after her, she had already disappeared into the golden sunshine, abruptly closing the door behind her.

The momentary escape of light from the outside into the quaint living space gave him a huge migraine. He just stared at the little fairy lights around him. The soft glow drowning him in a bright enough to sting, but dim enough to seem tranquil. His hands hovered above one of them, clasping the berry like globe in his palm, remembering. Remembering every little murder those hands committed, every little kid those hands hurt, every father those hands snatched away from his family.

Feeling rage rise inside his heart, he clasped the fairy light hard enough, as the light died. All that was left was a crimson coloured liquid in the palm of his hand, smelling a familiar metallic. His eyes blurred as he snatched the string of lights, and the entire room went dark.


End file.
